The Other Minister
by isthisrubble
Summary: Mycroft Holmes might have claimed that nothing startled him, but that was before the portrait of the old bloke in his office started talking to him.


_6__th__ of April 2005_

Mycroft Holmes looked around his new office with a feeling of extreme delight. As of tomorrow, he would officially start in his new position, and he had never before felt this much self-satisfaction. He could hold the post for at least ten years, and if the record of his predecessor was anything to go by, ten years was plenty of time to gather enough information as to make him indispensable.

He surveyed the room. It was square, modest and lined with mahogany. A fireplace was positioned opposite the desk, in-between two neat windows. The only thing out of place was the portrait above the fireplace. It stood out because, usually, the type of person who inhabited this office was not someone prone to sentiment, or someone who had time for decorating.

The picture was of an ancient-looking man with a long, silver beard to match his long, silver hair. The longer he stared at it, the longer Mycroft felt as if the portrait was staring back.

He had just turned back to his desk, deciding to put the painting out of his mind and have it removed before he got too busy to remember, when someone cleared their throat behind him.

Mycroft leapt around to see that the man in the portrait was now definitely looking at him. And smiling.

'The Minister for Magic requests a meeting to introduce himself to Mycroft Holmes.'

It talked. By God, was this some idiot's idea of a joke?

The portrait blinked at Mycroft as if he was expected to say something. When he didn't the silver-haired man said: 'oh, I see', then turned and disappeared out the side of the frame.

Mycroft reached blindly behind him for the telephone, but something stayed his hand. The next moment a cheery fire sprung up in the empty grate.

Green fire. Not physically impossible, just chemistry, had Sherlock-

Something appeared in the flames, spinning quickly and growing larger by the second, until a man stepped out of the fireplace and into Mycroft's office.

What the devil-

_Think, Mycroft._

This new man was tall, black and bald. No, not bald, he shaved his head. He was wearing a gold earring in one ear and a navy, three-piece suit under a long black coat that could have concealed anything. He dusted the ash off his sleeve before approaching Mycroft with his hand outstretched.

'Hello, you must be Mycroft Holmes. Sorry about the short notice, I thought you had been informed. My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt.'

Mycroft realised he had been staring and forced his face into the practiced blank look as he shook Shacklebolt's hand. He had never heard the name before.

'I don't suppose you could tell me precisely what in the name of God is going on?' His voice was too sharp. There was no need to snap.

'Yes.' Shacklebolt glanced behind Mycroft, at his desk chair. 'Perhaps you ought to sit down, this may take some time.'

Feeling strangely inadequate and out of place in his own office, Mycroft did as he was told. Shacklebolt sat down in the other chair and leaned forward. 'Your predecessor knew me, and I assumed he would tell you about me at least a little, but by your reaction I'm guessing he didn't. So, firstly: I am a wizard. No, let me finish,' as Mycroft began to interrupt, 'I'm trying to explain, at least hear me out. I know this is a shock, but you must believe me. I am not a magician or a performer, I am a wizard. There is a reasonably large population of witches and wizards in Britain, and, of course, there are communities in all other countries. We have our own government, the Ministry of Magic, and I am its head, the Minister.

'Our governments should not intersect usually, but there is always a possibility of a crime committed by a wizard affecting a non-magical person like yourself, so we take the precaution of informing the Prime Minister about us. We discovered that your position existed in 2000 and your predecessor was given the same information as the Prime Minister. Following so far?' Mycroft could only nod dumbly. He would need some time and some whiskey to properly absorb this, if indeed it was true.

'We have our own law enforcement methods, and if there is ever any records of wizarding crimes with Muggle - non-magical people, sorry - police we make sure the police understand that the crime has been solved and that no-one investigates further. You really don't have to worry about us,' he finished with a vague flourish of his arm, 'but it's best if you're kept informed, to a degree. Now, I imagine you have questions?'

He did, but first he looked again at Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was right-handed, he did a lot of writing and not much physical work, yet he looked fit and healthy. A desk worker who cared about his health? He had said, however, that he was the Minister for Magic, so he was someone important. And he said he was a wizard.

'Could you prove it, perhaps?'

'That I'm a wizard? Certainly.' Shacklebolt drew a long, thin, highly polished stick from within his coat.

He stood up, stepped back and pointed the stick at his chair. It gave a startling shiver and then walked twice around the office before settling back in its place.

Mycroft stared very hard at his prized fountain pen with the aim of holding on to his fragile composure. By the time he looked up again, Shacklebolt was sitting down again and watching him with concern.

He sighed. 'Perhaps I should start at the beginning...'

* * *

'But there is nothing to fear, you say? Nothing at all?'

'Well...' Shacklebolt hesitated, therefore answering Mycroft's question. 'Not at the moment, no. But there is always a possibility, and that's why you need to be informed.' He drew a number of highly coloured pamphlets from an inner pocket. 'These-'

'Minister.'

They both looked up. The portrait had spoken again. 'Harry needs to speak urgently with you. He refused to tell me what has happened.'

Shacklebolt looked startled. 'I thought he - well. I have to go,' he said to Mycroft. 'These pamphlets explain how our ministry works, if you're interested. All things considered, I should hope that we never meet again.'

They shook hands, and Mycroft watched the Other Minister shake some powder into the flames, turning them green once more. With a nod in Mycroft's direction, he stepped into the fire and vanished.

If someone had entered Mycroft Holmes' study two hours later when, by rights, he should have been at home, they would have found him immersed deeply in the pamphlets Kingsley Shacklebolt had left.

And he smiled.


End file.
